Spark of Revolution
by RussetDivinity
Summary: Paris is a city of criminals, of students wishing to rebel, and of the odd mad scientist struggling to survive. One of these groups of students calls themselves Les Amis de l'ABC, and one of these mad scientists is a girl named Musichetta, who has so far managed to stave off the worst effects of insanity.
1. The Streets of Paris

Musichetta's rooms were a mixture of books and half-finished machines. The books were far easier to find; after all, there was nothing wrong with a girl who read often so long as she paid her rent on time. It was the machines that bothered her landlord, and she had promised to hide them as long as he wouldn't turn her out. It was a tenuous relationship, especially when the National Guard came into her neighborhood and started searching for Sparks. It wasn't as though she could not create, though, and a few of her "little wonders" (as M. Allard called them when he wasn't worried about being arrested) were useful in keeping the building warm in winter and cooking food well.

"You have a gift, Musichetta," he told her one October as she knelt among fragments of wall. "Any other Spark would have tried to conquer Paris by now."

"Who says I haven't?" She laughed at the shock on his face before turning back to the exposed pipes to find the leak.

It was true, no matter how she tried to laugh about it. By her age, and with the time she had spent in one place, she should have tried to make some sort of doomsday device and either leveled the city or challenged the king to a duel. Even knowing that he more than likely had some Sparks under his command and would be expecting something like that, she would have tried to wrestle power for herself. Instead, she lived in a small set of rooms and paid off most of her rent by making helpful little machines that could cook an egg without water and kept the rooms warm during the coldest months. Whenever M. Allard asked her seriously enough that she had to give an answer, she would respond that she buried all her passion into her books or that she had lucky ancestors.

Sometimes she thought she really was gifted, even for a Spark.

Musichetta was one of the grisettes of Paris, a working girl who took whatever job she could to keep herself fed. She was skillful enough and clever enough not to let herself become a prostitute, because she knew such a life would only lead to a slow, drawn-out death. Sometimes the death was a quick, violent one, and she couldn't decide which she wanted to avoid more. If she hadn't had her "little wonders" to sell to discreet buyers, she was afraid she would have ended up on the streets, given how quickly she changed jobs. She couldn't help it. Her mind moved too quickly for routine work, which was all women were afforded in the city, and when her mind started to wander, it started to create. Feeling that urge to build arrive in her fingers and spread up through her arms was a dangerous, intoxicating sensation, and when she started to feel that at her job, she knew she had to get out quickly.

It wasn't a bad life, and when she thought of what else she could have done – married some country boy and lived on a farm, become a nun, lived out her life as a normal girl – she knew that she would rather be a Spark than anything else. There were moments when she was creating that her mind would suddenly become clear, and everything started to fit together. It was like the world shifted before her fingers, letting her make what needed to be made.

Her life wasn't without its dangers. Being a Spark in the country meant coming under suspicion for almost anything that went wrong, and she sometimes heard whispered stories of boys and girls only just discovering their gifts being dragged from their homes and killed in horrible ways. In the city, at least, she could hide and move about. The only trick was to avoid the National Guard. Most Parisians accepted Sparks as part of everyday life. After all, if it weren't for Sparks, how would they have such wonderful tools? Some of the nobility even kept Sparks as pets, like they were artists, but in a much more careful manner. The king was the one most worried about a Spark uprising, and he regularly sent out the National Guard to find Sparks and bring them to the Bastille, which had been rebuilt specifically to house them.

Musichetta never went out alone at night, and she never spoke of her gifts to anyone she didn't know she could trust. She had been moving from place to place ever since she first created a device that could track the movements of rats. At first, it had been just a toy, but then she got the idea to mobilize the rats into a miniature army to do her bidding. The thought frightened and intrigued her, especially when she realized that the last person to make such an interesting machine, Gabriel Armistead, had been burnt as a witch. That night, she had left her home, taking with her only a worn copy of a novel and a little food. She had nearly starved on the way to Paris, but it had been worth it to live a life that was slightly less fearful.

* * *

It was no longer bitterly cold, so M. Allard had turned off the "little wonder" in the walls. He had come to trust it over the past two winters, and he wondered how soon he would reach the point where he couldn't live without it. His tenants were already there, and one of them had already come downstairs to complain about his turning it off so soon. He had sent the man back to his room with a reminder that fuel wasn't cheap and certainly wasn't free, and that there was no danger of anyone freezing to death tonight. There would be a chill, but nothing more than what most Parisians were forced to live with. The man had acquiesced, but only after Allard threatened to charge him an extra sou on his rent.

Otherwise, it had been a quiet night, for which he was glad. There weren't any riots, at least in this part of Paris, and the National Guard hadn't been sent around in weeks. Pessimists would say that he was due for some trouble, but Allard preferred to look on the bright side of things. Keeping a Spark as a tenant meant he had access to all sorts of technology. Having such good technology meant his other tenants were willing to pay a little more, which covered the costs of letting the Spark pay with her inventions. And not seeing the National Guard in weeks meant the chances were even better they wouldn't come this week. Having reminded himself of these cheerful circumstances, he went into the kitchen to make some tea with the kettle his Spark had made the previous autumn.

He hadn't even reached the stove when he heard the knock on the door.

At first, he convinced himself that he had just imagined it. After all, no one would come and ask for lodging at this time of the night. The noise must have come from a carriage outside, or perhaps someone upstairs was trying to enter another's rooms. There was nothing to worry about.

Then the knock came again, sharp and authoritarian. Almost military.

Allard nearly dropped his kettle.

When he opened the front door, a wave of chilled air rushed in, blocked only by the bodies of soldiers of the National Guard. Allard set himself in the gap of the open door, trying to block their entrance. "What do you want?"

"We're here on a raid," the leader said. "Stand aside."

"I won't have you causing trouble for my tenants." Allard crossed his arms over his chest and stood firm. "I run a reputable establishment; you can ask anyone on this street. I house no revolutionaries, and you won't find a Spark within these walls." It was what everyone insisted, and Allard didn't know if it was still believable or just part of the process of being raided. "You have no business here."

"Where we have business is not for you to decide," the leader said. He pushed the door fully open and stepped inside. "We will try not to cause too much trouble. Here." He pulled a few bank notes from his pocket and pressed them into Allard's hand. "For your trouble."

It was more than he would make from extra rent in a year. He could do nothing but stand aside and let them pass.

* * *

The walls of the building were thin, and everyone could hear what everyone else was doing. When she first arrived, Musichetta had been afraid that people would hear her tinkering and building and would call the National Guard down on her. She tried to time her work for when everyone would be too deeply asleep to notice, or when both sides around her were empty, or when she could hear her neighbors making equally loud noises, whether from arguing or making love. After a time, they got used to living next to a Spark and even started calling her "our resident industrialist". They found things to call her that didn't make her sound dangerous, and she started working during normal hours.

Old habits were difficult to break, however, and sometimes she found herself sitting up at night and listening as the people around her went to bed. She had their nightly routines and noises nearly memorized, and they hardly distracted her from her books, but whenever she looked up for even a moment, she could identify who was doing what. Only when everything was silent would she finish her chapter and go to bed herself.

Her work today had been neither inspiring nor exhausting, and even though she could feel something bright prickling at the edge of her mind, it wasn't strong enough to tempt her into creation. Instead, she settled in a worn chair and picked up the first book she found. It was engrossing enough to keep her interested and awake long after she would have normally gone to bed, which was why she was able to hear the steady tromping of booted feet on the floor below.

They were here.

She needed no warning to know that the National Guard had arrived. It was what she had expected for a year, since she first arrived and asked for lodging from M. Allard. That they had taken this long to find her was something close to miraculous, especially since she had been present for one of their previous raids. That one had been easy to avoid; her rooms had been largely empty from a combination of giving away her work and lack of further inspiration, so she was able to pass herself as nothing more than a grisette. Tonight, however, they would be searching every room, and hers was crammed with machines and tools.

There was no time to hide anything, and even if she had been given an hour's warning, she wouldn't have found enough space. Destroying her work was out of the question; it was painful enough to think of the National Guard tearing it apart. She could never have borne to do it herself. The only thing she could do was run.

She hadn't bothered to undress, so all she had to do was pull on a coat, grab what little money she had, and slip on some boots to protect her feet from the cold. Her books would have to stay. She loved each one too much to think of simply choosing one for her exile, and if she was lucky, she would be able to return with most of them undamaged. If she was unlucky… well, the dead didn't bother reading. Her best chance was to get out of the building and several streets away. If she had the chance to stay in Paris instead of fleeing for the country side – or even the principalities to the east – there would be plenty of books for her to read. There would even be books in other countries, if it came to that, and she was good enough with languages to at least understand German.

She closed and locked her door as she left, hoping that would delay them a little. She didn't want to make it too easy for them to find her work. The key went into her pocket, and she curled her fingers around it. The metal was cold, but she could feel her heat seeping into it, and it felt like a talisman.

The Guard hadn't yet reached the stairs, and she was able to hurry down and slip past most of them. They were too concerned with dealing with the other tenants, most of whom were arguing loudly against their rooms being entered and searched, and she slipped through the confusion. She was almost to the next set of stairs and nearly out when someone grabbed her arm.

"Where are you headed, mademoiselle?"

"I – I wanted to see M. Allard," she said, keeping her face turned from the Guard. "I didn't know what was happening, and I was afraid."

"You needn't be frightened," he said, sounding slightly gentler. His grip on her arm didn't loosen, and he pulled her a bit closer to him.

"Please," she said, trying to work her arm free. She had to get outside. "Please, I'm just a working girl. I don't want any trouble. I just want to see M. Allard. Won't you let me go, monsieur?"

The man pulled her even closer and was about to say something when the voice of someone who must have been his superior called him. "Tailler!" The man twitched, and Musichetta was able to pull herself free and run for the stairs.

M. Allard wasn't in the front room, and Musichetta didn't care to search for him. Instead, she ran out into the night. The noise from the search vanished as soon as the door closed behind her, and by the time she was a street away, all she heard were the sounds of Paris.

She didn't follow any specific route, because she had no destination. Where she worked was nothing special to her, and none of her old homes would take her back, especially with how little she could pay. An errant thought crossed her mind that she shouldn't have bought so many books, and that only made her think of her work being destroyed and her belongings torn apart. They wouldn't take down the whole building just for one Spark, but if they saw that her machines had entered the walls and filled it, they might be willing to do even that.

There was nowhere for her to go, but she couldn't stop safely. All she could do was run.

* * *

Musichetta spent a cold and sleepless night out. She had gotten too used to sleeping in a warm bed with thick blankets and heated walls to fall asleep in a park or a doorway until spring, no matter how tired she felt. So she had run until she could run no more, and then she walked until it was well past midnight and the cold had started to seep into her body. Until dawn, she stumbled, and at dawn, she turned around and tried to find her way home.

There was enough money in her pocket for her to buy breakfast, and she ate as she walked. The food revived her somewhat, but she was still exhausted. Her head felt heavy, and her eyelids threatened to stay closed every time she blinked. Her boots weren't good for running, and where her feet weren't numb, they ached. Her key was still clenched between her fingers, but she couldn't feel any warmth from it. Her throat was raw from the cold air, and every step was a fight to keep from dropping to the ground.

It took nearly an hour for her to reach the street, and when she was there, she paused at the corner, immobile. The building still stood, but it was surrounded by members of the National Guard. She allowed herself a small sob that caught in her throat before turning and walking away.


	2. They Don't Want Money

Hannah Augustin had never been to England. Her mother had come from there, half-broken attempting to escape Queen Albia's reign, and for years had been unable to speak except in garbled fragments. She made it to Prussia, where she met a minor Spark who helped her recover. They married, even though the poor woman still could not remember her own name, and when their daughter was born, no one was sure if "Hannah" was meant to be the child's name or the woman's. In a few days it was moot, anyway; Hannah's mother succumbed to an infection and died. Hannah was raised by her father for fifteen years, and she discovered her own abilities at fourteen when she made a self-deploying net that could target large swimmers. Her father was so pleased that he took her to the North Sea and helped her catch some of the largest fish she had ever seen. That was the first day he had truly smiled at her, and for the year afterward she thought she would live happily with her father, creating wondrous machines and terrifying the local populace.

Then the Jägermonsters came riding, and Hannah saw a village burn before her eyes. She heard her father screaming, and her device which should have summoned heavy clouds refused to bring forth so much as a drizzle. Science failed her that day, or she failed it, and she panicked and fled. For years she wandered through the German principalities, struggling through the wilderness and fighting rogue clanks. Somehow she worked her way westward and found herself in Paris.

Hannah had never seen a city before, though she had thought one of the larger villages had been one. Paris was something she could never have imagined and filled with more people than she had dreamed existed. It overwhelmed her senses, and for a full day she hid in a hotel with the window blocked and the door locked. The desire to create, to reign, screamed in her head, and it wasn't until nightfall that she was able to take a breath and remember what had happened the last time she had truly tried to create instead of simply working from others' designs. Borrowing the work of others was a hollow life, but at least she knew she would be successful.

She still had nightmares about the fire.

One of the first things she learned, even before she mastered French, was that no one in Paris trusted Sparks. It took her months to understand that no one trusted Sparks openly. Some would use Spark-created technology, and others would even hire Sparks to work for them. Hannah had drifted from job to job, always being sent away after the first week, but before the end of her first year in Paris, she met a man willing to have her as an assistant. She was good with her hands and even had a few ideas about how to improve his work, and the two got along quite well. Neither told the other their true name, but Hannah didn't care. She had enough money to buy food and pay for nice rooms in town, and she was working with science, which was all she wanted from life.

Spring had come late this year. Even though the calendar said the seasons should have changed, there was a definite chill to the air, and Hannah pulled her coat tighter around her body as she walked home. It had been a slow day. M. Charbonneau – so her master called himself – had been in a temper and nearly torn apart his small laboratory. Hannah had done her best to put it back in order and calm the neighbors, but she had left with only half a day's pay in her pocket and a stinging mark on her upper arm from when she had bumped against a beaker of acid. Sparks were like this, she reminded herself. Her father had been known for his temper among the townsfolk, and even she had railed against those fools who doubted her. Still, it hurt to think that such a temper could be directed against her.

She turned the corner to her own set of rooms and very nearly bumped into a pair of men who lounged against the wall. One of them looked her up and down with something that was nearly a leer, and she pulled back, reaching deeper into her pocket for a small golden circle. It looked like a ring, but when it hit the ground, it would send up a flash of light that would distract her attackers.

"Hello, mademoiselle," one of them said. He stood and brushed off his ragged coat, as though he could rid it of some of the dirt. "Would you have some charity for a pair of soldiers who haven't had a day's work in a month?"

"I'm running rather low on money myself, monsieur," she said, trying not to sound nervous. She had faced clanks in the German wilderness. A pair of soldiers was nothing to be frightened of. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't –"

"What have you got in your pockets, dear?" the other asked. He was the one who had leered at her, and now he pushed some of his poorly-cut dark hair out of his face and stood. His friend circled around to behind her, cutting off her escape. "Let's just have a look, shall we? You look well-fed enough to miss a meal or two."

"Please, monsieur, I just – stop that!" The first man to speak had grabbed her arm and pulled it from her pocket. She was still holding the ring, and it glinted in the late afternoon sunlight.

"What's this? A pretty little toy for a girl who's 'low on money'. I'm sure your husband won't mind if it went to a worthy cause." His hand moved to hers, and she opened her fingers, letting the ring drop. Just before it hit the road, she closed her eyes.

The flash still startled her as the white exploded against her eyelids, but from the cries of the two men, it had shocked them even more. One of them had enough presence of mind to should "Spark!" and just as Hannah opened her eyes, she saw the other pull a knife and lunge for her. The blade pierced her coat and slipped easily into her skin, and she must have screamed, because the sound she heard next came from a woman's voice.

The two men were cursing and stumbling about, but she was too cold to care. All her warmth was leaking out past the knife and pooling around her fingers.

* * *

"Forgive me," Cosette whispered as her pencil sketched over the paper, drawing mechanical arms and gears. "Forgive me, Lord, for I cannot help but sin." She knew it was wrong to let herself even imagine such creations – there was some solace in the fact that she never made them – but her mind would reach out to them almost of its own accord, and she sometimes found herself smiling with pleasure at the beauty on the page she had created. For they were beautiful, her creations, even if the nuns had taught her that such things were abominations.

For most of the year, her room would be full of such papers, and even though she tried to hide them from herself, she would sometimes look over them again and trace the lines with her little finger. They would be such elegant machines if she could build them, and she knew they would be used to help people. It could hardly be bad to create if she was building to help. She had been taught that her impulses sprang from the Devil – thank Heaven the nuns had not told Father! – and that the only possible use for such things was to destroy. Her mind shied away from any thought of harming anyone, however, and her creations did the same. In the two years she had been having these ideas, she had not come up with one that could be used for harm.

It was spring, so her room was largely empty. Most of her drawings had gone into her fireplace over the winter. Her heart ached to see her work curl in upon itself and turn to ash, but knowing that she was avoiding temptation gave her at least a small satisfaction. With a sigh, she sat back and looked over the drawing. It was really no better than a rough sketch, and part of her wanted to go back over it and clean up the lines. Surely there was something to be improved.

With a regretful sigh, she set the paper on a small stack of others by her fireplace. It was getting warm enough now that her father would start to worry if she felt the need to have a fire at night, so the season of collecting would start again. The start of spring always frightened her. If something should happen and she found herself actually building something… if she let something slip in conversation… if her father found the drawings and confronted her… she didn't know what she would do.

Someone knocked on her door, and she covered the papers with bits of kindling, silently thanking any saints who were listening that Toussaint and her father were content to let her start her own fires. "Yes?" she called rising and turning to the door.

"Mademoiselle, your father has returned and is asking after you," Toussaint called through the door. Cosette couldn't tell if the old woman's stutter had eased or she had simply gotten so used to it that she barely noticed.

"Thank you, Toussaint," Cosette said. "Would you tell him I'll be downstairs in a moment?" She heard a faint noise of assent before the servant's footsteps faded. She knew she ought to run downstairs and embrace her father, and she wished to see him again and perhaps walk through the garden with him, but her response to Toussaint had bought her about a minute, perhaps a little more, and she used it to turn to her drawings again.

They really were quite good, she thought, allowing herself the sin without fear of any repercussions. There had to be a way to save them.

* * *

There were times when Paris wearied Jean Valjean. He knew it could not be a perfect city – there would be no such thing on earth – but whenever he started to feel optimistic about living there with Cosette, he found something that destroyed his hopes once more. Just today, as he went on his morning walk, he had found the body of a woman lying in the street. She had evidently been dead throughout the night and was covered in her own blood from a knife wound in her stomach. Even more distressing, if such a thing were possible, the word _SPARK _had been written on the wall above her, in what was possibly more of her blood. No one had bothered moving her body, and he had paid some gamins to clean off the wall and get the woman to a church so she could be buried. He would pray for her that night.

Sparks were the people of the Devil. So the church said, and so many Parisians believed. Jean Valjean could not bring himself to agree, for he had seen works of beauty crafted by Sparks, things that the Devil could not have dreamed of. There were times when the opinions of his fellow countrymen made him want to leave Paris and find a new life with Cosette somewhere else, but he could think of nowhere to go. He would be easier to find in the smaller towns, and going into the German principalities was out of the question so long as the Heterodynes and their Jägermonsters terrorized the towns and the wilderness was full of monsters nearly as bad. He would never bring Cosette to England under the reign of Albia, and going to America would be nearly impossible. He knew next to nothing about the Iberian Peninsula, but he did know it would be difficult to reach and to live in as foreigners.

His musings were cut short when Cosette appeared in the sitting room. Despite her smile, she looked rather drawn and pale. Thoughts of Sparks and moving were pushed to the back of his mind as he rose and embraced the girl.

"I'm sorry I took so long, Papa," she said before he could speak, and even her voice sounded weary. "I was finishing one of my sketches when Toussaint came to tell me you had arrived, and I couldn't bring myself to leave it."

He settled into his chair again, and Cosette sat on the ground by his knee. "You will have to show me these sketches of yours someday," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. It was thin, but then, she had always been small and slender. Even bringing in the best food hadn't changed that. "You spend so much time on them that I can't think why you haven't shown one to me yet."

A hint of color had risen into her cheeks, but now it faded. "Yes, papa," she said, but her gaze slid from his face and drifted off into the distance.

"Why, Cosette, what's wrong? Is there something bothering you?"

"What?" She looked up and smiled. "No, not at all. I was merely thinking."

"From the looks of it, you were thinking deep thoughts." She nodded, and her cheeks turned pink. "You're too young to be distressed by life. You would tell me if there were anything bothering you, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, papa," she said again, and again her gaze slid from his face and into the distance. They sat in silence for a while, and then Cosette looked up at him. "Is it warm out yet? It must be nearly time for the sun to come out. By the calendar, it's been spring for days."

Her voice was once more the prattle he had grown accustomed to, and he smiled. "It's growing warmer, my dear. Your garden should be ready by the start of next month."

When her face fell, it was in the disappointment of an innocent child, and he wondered whether it was selfish of him to prefer that to her more adult sorrow. "Is it warm enough at least to take a turn in the garden? I do sometimes like seeing it in winter. It isn't dead, really, just waiting to return to us in the spring."

"You will want a shawl," he said, and before he had properly finished the sentence, Cosette had sprung to her feet, kissed him on the forehead, and run off to her room. Jean Valjean watched her go, feeling a strange sorrow. Whenever Cosette talked of death, he always saw Fantine's eyes behind the child's. They were the same shade of blue and both had known pain. He had planned to bring the two of them to Paris, and he wondered what would have happened had Fantine survived. The mother and daughter might be happy now, and he would have been able to save one more person.

Javert had called Fantine a Spark during what had passed for her trial. Didn't the Spark run in families?

He shook his head. He had promised himself, when he first saw Cosette kneeling by the Thernardiers' fireplace with rusty tools lying beside her, that he would not consider such thoughts. If Cosette was a Spark, then she would be reviled by society, and it was his task to protect her from that. He would not love her any less, but sometimes he had to look past his own little world and see what danger the outside might cause.

Cosette returned then, a shawl pinned around her shoulders, and took his arm. As they entered the garden, she chattered about what sorts of flowers might appear and whether she ought to clear a patch to have a proper garden rather than just the rambling wilderness of plants that had sprung up. Jean Valjean nodded in all her pauses, but he wasn't listening. He was remembering a little girl who had looked up at him, holding in her hands a hand-made attempt at a doll.


	3. Late for Class

Marius Pontmercy hated waking up. There was something inherently hateful about the morning, the way the sun came in too cheerful for its own good and the sounds of Paris seemed to sing about how proud they were to be themselves. He would be perfectly happy if the world could just skip straight to the afternoon and he could start his day with lunch.

But if he skipped morning, he would miss his classes. If he even overslept a little, he would be late.

Then he remembered that he didn't have a proper clock in his rooms and scrambled out of bed, tossing his covers aside as he flung himself to his coat, which was draped over a chair. The bed, the chair, and a desk were the only pieces of furniture he owned, but somehow they managed to clutter a room that should have been Spartan. Of course, the dozens of little machines scattered across the floor didn't help with the mess, and he had to step cautiously to avoid slicing open his feet on sharp bits of metal that had been carelessly left out. He really needed to do something about his half-finished little clanks, but he just couldn't find the inspiration.

His watch was stuck in his coat pocket, but when he tugged it out, he saw that there was still half an hour before he had to be in class. It hadn't started yet, at least, but there was hardly enough time to get dressed and arrive unless he took a carriage. Of course, he barely had enough money to feed himself from day to day. He would have to run.

Marius had never dressed faster. He flung his clothes onto his body and was out the door in barely a minute, choosing to forgo breakfast as he walked quickly down the street, dodging people and avoiding carts as nimbly as he could. Every few minutes he was tempted to check his watch, but he refused to let his hand even go close to his pocket, because checking the time would delay him a few seconds, and those seconds would add up more quickly than most people would believe.

Normally, the walk to his classes took an hour, including the time he stopped to get some breakfast, which he ate on the way. Today, it took thirty-five minutes, and as he approached the school, he slowed, knowing that he was too late. Normally, there would be students outside up until the moment classes started, but today the front of the building was empty. Perhaps he would have a chance to slip into class a little late and no one would notice. If it weren't the very first day of this class, he would certainly have tried, but now he hesitated outside the door, hope battling the knowledge of failure. He would never be a lawyer, never be a success at anything. He couldn't even succeed at being a Spark; the initial moments were there, the first brilliant flash of creation, but there was never enough energy at the beginning to fix anything. With a weary sigh, he turned away and started to walk down the road. He could possibly sell his books and look into another way to make a living.

"Excuse me! Monsieur!"

Marius turned and saw a bald man in a coat with worn sleeves running down the stairs after him. "Yes? Ah – am I the one you're speaking to?"

"You're the only man on the street, aren't you?" The bald man grinned. "Besides me, of course. Are you Monsieur Pontmercy?"

"I am. How do you know my name?"

"Because, monsieur, I am in the same class you are." Marius noticed the books the man had under his arm. "Or, I was. I have quite nobly sacrificed my position as a student to preserve yours."

"Oh!" Marius was taken aback, and at first had no idea how he ought to respond. "You needn't –"

"And you needn't thank me. Rather, I ought to be the one thanking you. If it weren't for your tardiness, I would have been forced into the life of studying law, and perhaps even into a productive career. However, Monsieur Pontmercy, I must advise you against such tardiness in the future. Not all your classmates are so kind-hearted as I am."

Marius was once more speechless. "I'm afraid I still don't understand, Monsieur…"

"Lesgle. Not to be confused with M. L'Aigle, who is also me." Lesgle put an arm around Marius's shoulders and started walking down the street. "You needn't be afraid of going into class today, I think. You see, M. Blondeau has a terrible habit when he calls roll of skipping about through the alphabet. Today, for instance, he started with the letter _P_. Now let me ask you, what sort of man, when faced with a whole alphabet of letters to choose from would start with _P_? In any case, he began calling out the names of students. Claude Paquet… present. Laurent Pelletier… present. Marius Pontmercy… no response. Here he pauses. I ought to add that he gives students three chances to respond before crossing their names from the roll permanently. Again he calls Marius Pontmercy. Again there is no answer. I begin to feel sorry for this Pontmercy fellow, who, perhaps through no fault of his own, is about to be deprived of a decent education. Blondeau is beginning to smile now, eager to get rid of a student. Marius Pontmercy, he calls again, and this time I respond with a resounding 'Present!' Rather disappointed, he moves on to the next letter… _L_. My name is the first under that letter, and when I respond to it, he looks right at me and says, 'Monsieur, you cannot be both Pontmercy and Lesgle.' To cut this story short, I left the classroom, and I believe your name is preserved until tomorrow."

Lesgle spoke seemingly without needing to pause for breath, and the smile never slipped from his face. When imitating Blondeau's voice, he spoke in a sneer that had to have been caricature, and when telling the story, he spoke with such humor and expression that Marius almost wondered why he was not an actor. When he finally did finish, Marius could only think to say, "Please, accept my thanks. I know there isn't much I can do to make it up to you –"

"Buying me breakfast would be an acceptable solution," Lesgle said. "I spent most of my last francs on these books."

"I'm afraid I did the same," Marius said. "I only have enough money with me to buy my dinner."

"Well, then, we'll be two hungry lawyers. I'm sure the people of Paris will appreciate that." With a laugh, Lesgle steered Marius down another street. "Come. I know a lovely park where we can sit and talk until your next class. Do you have a watch?"

"Of course." Marius set his hand in his pocket but didn't bring out his watch. It was partially his own invention – one of the few he had ever finished – and he didn't want people getting the wrong idea. It ticked against his palm, and he imagined he could feel the gears whirring, though of course that was impossible. He had constructed it too well for that.

"Excellent. I won't fear for your being late again."

* * *

Lesgle's only luck came from his tongue; he could speak for several minutes on end without tiring or stumbling over words, and most of the time he could actually speak well. It was the reason he had decided he might as well become a lawyer. If his only skill came from speaking, then he surely ought to be in a profession that encouraged speech. However, if his associates would be men like M. Blondeau, then he was just as happy to be once again out of a job. When his money ran out, he would move into Joly's rooms again. It was lonely to be the only one living in his rooms.

M. Pontmercy was an odd sort of man, but Lesgle was used to the odd sorts. This one, though, was new, and Lesgle hoped to figure him out. There was something vaguely aristocratic about his bearing, but his eyes weren't the sort to look down on everyone. They looked almost as though they had just learned how to be open and were still drinking in the brilliance of some new light. His speech, too, when he did speak, was bright and lively. Within five minutes of reaching the park Lesgle decided that he liked Marius Pontmercy. The only question was whether the rest of Les Amis would.

Lesgle did most of the talking, but he gave Pontmercy a chance to get in a few words between his own long, somewhat rambling speeches. When it was time for Pontmercy to head off to class, Lesgle walked him back to the building and made him smile five times before releasing him to the study of law. With a laugh and a whistle, he turned and walked off down the street. Joly would still be in class, but Grantaire would almost certainly be at one of the cafés or bars nearby, and he was often good company. There was a meeting that afternoon, but Lesgle had no intention of being lonely until then.

As he walked, he considered the weather. It had been growing warmer, which was lucky, since his coat was growing too thin to deserve the name. A fresh grin sprang to his face, as it always did when he thought of himself as lucky. Since the seasons were constant, he wouldn't have to fear a sudden turn of fortune and a snowstorm, either. He was so cheerful that, when he rounded a corner, he nearly tripped over a young woman huddled in the street.

She looked like so many of the young women one would find lying in the street: shaking, crying, worn nearly to skin and bone. But there was something different about this one, and it took him a moment to realize what. As she glanced up at him, he saw it. Her eyes were bright and searching, not vacant like so many of the others. There was something almost manic about them, but it was not the mania of madness, at least, not traditional madness. It was the mania of creation, a look that Lesgle was very familiar with.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," he said, kneeling so he could see her face. "I'd offer you my coat, but I'm afraid yours is far better."

She shrank back from him as though she were trying to disappear into that coat. It was a very fine one, at least compared to what he often saw. It was probably the only thing that had been keeping her warm at night. Well, that and her boots. Those looked thick and sturdy.

"You know, I'm in nearly the same place you are. Why, if it weren't for my friends, I'd have been out on the street as well." He held out his hand, but she didn't take it. "Haven't you got anywhere to go?" he asked, his voice softening. "Any friends, any family?"

She shook her head. "The National Guard turned me out."

So she was a Spark. "Let me help you." All the brightness had gone from his voice, and it was replaced by urgency. "I have friends who would be willing to give you a place to stay. I'd be willing to give you a place to stay, if I were sure I'd still be there within the next month." When she continued to hesitate, he said, "Mademoiselle, I am a revolutionary."

She took his hand, and he helped her to her feet. "Who are you?"

"My name is Félix Lesgle, but my friends call me Bossuet. I may introduce you to them sometime." Jehan, at least, would be fond of her. "And what is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Musichetta," she said. "Musichetta Avare." She drew closer to him was they walked down the street. "It comes from an English name."

"Musichetta Avare." It was a beautiful name, and she would be a beautiful woman if she had some proper meals and a roof over her head. Even better, she sounded like an interesting woman, especially if she was a Spark. And to have English ancestry! Even if it wasn't one of her recent ancestors, she would surely have some stories to tell. "Mademoiselle Avare, I am very glad you're still alive."

She clung even tighter to his arm.

* * *

_"I am very glad you're still alive."_

No one had ever said that to her before – though when she was around people who cared for her, there usually weren't reasons for it to be said – much less saying it like they meant it. But this man, Félix Lesgle, sounded as though he was genuinely pleased that she wasn't dead. It could mean only one of two things: either he didn't know she was a Spark and was glad not to find a dead woman in the streets, or he knew and had some reason to want her alive despite that. She was terrified, but not enough to let go. Whatever this man wanted, he was at least a concrete enemy, and that was more than she could expect if she ran from him.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they turned a corner.

"To my home. Well, for as long as it is my home. I may have to move in with a friend after a few weeks. If you'd like to stay, I'm sure he wouldn't mind. He's a good man, and he'd be glad of some company." Félix looked more comfortable smiling than not, and he grinned down at her as though they were old friends who hadn't seen one another for years. "If you'd rather not, I'm sure I can find you a place of your own, or one of my other friends can. They're all good men."

"Are they all like you?"

"All of them are revolutionaries, yes." At least he was keeping his voice low when discussing it. His good cheer was tempered by good sense, something Musichetta had learned to appreciate in companions. "One of them, our leader, is like you." His voice had lowered to a whisper, but the knowledge was still enough to make her nearly jump. If her boots hadn't felt so heavy, she certainly would have.

"You know?"

"I guessed. It's why I'm glad I found you, before… well, before you starved out here. It's gotten warmer, but being hungry is never comfortable, no matter the weather." His voice had almost trailed off, but now it sounded like he was forcing himself to be cheerful. "I'm sure I've got some sort of food at home. What would you like to eat?"

For some reason, the question surprised her, and it was a moment before she could speak. "Bread. I'd like some bread with butter, and hot tea, unless you've got some wine, and a large piece of cheese." It sounded like the best meal she had eaten since leaving home, and her stomach growled just thinking about warm bread with the butter soaking into the crumb. Even if the bread wasn't fresh, it would be filling. Félix Lesgle didn't seem rich enough to afford white bread, but she didn't mind. Anything would be better than the little she had eaten over the days she had been running.

"Mademoiselle Avare," he said, and his voice sounded grand, almost pompous, "I will do my best to fulfill your wishes. I assure you my intentions are only the most noble." He lowered his voice a little before continuing. "You can trust me, mademoiselle. I would never dream of betraying you, any more than I would dream of betraying my friends. Someday, if you don't leave, I'll bring you to them. I think they'll want to meet you."

Something about the way he talked about his friends made her think they were almost a family. If she hadn't already been clinging to his arm, she would have embraced him.


	4. A Visit from the National Guard

Lieutenant Absolon Yount had been a member of the National Guard for a little over two years. His family hadn't been terribly rich, so there wasn't much else for him to do. Henri had inherited the business, and most of the profits had gone to Eulalie's dowry, so there wasn't much left for Absolon but the church or the military. He had chosen the latter, and for the most part, he was proud of his choice. There were rare moments when he regretted it, but those were few and far between.

That was before Commander Thibault Eustis had been assigned to their squadron.

There had been a time when they had only gone after Sparks when there was obvious evidence that one was in the vicinity. Now, Commander Eustis sent them out nearly every day in search of Sparks, and Absolon was beginning to weary of it. Some of the battles were exhilarating, and several were worthy, but there were always those few that involved fighting a simple man who had only made the mistake of building a telescope that could expand to contain other telescopes or a collection of coders. To tell the truth, Absolon would rather not attack any sort of Spark, but there wasn't much he could do aside from join the church, and he had never been very religious.

Tonight they were outside a small house. Light shone from one of the windows, and since he stood close to it, Absolon tried to peek inside. A brown-haired young man sat beside a lantern, reading. A gray coat was draped over his shoulders, and sometimes he would pause in his book to smile at nothing and glance at the opposite wall. He likely would have continued until the candle in the lantern burned to nothing, but Eustis's knock on the door made him jump. He set aside the book, lifted the lantern, and raced out of the room.

A few seconds later, the young man appeared at the door. He looked alarmed to see the National Guard at his doorstep, but his voice was steady as he said, "What are you here for?"

Commander Eustis cleared his throat. "Monsieur Roche?"

"I am Olivier Roche," he said cautiously. "What do you want with me?"

"Monsieur Roche, you are under arrest on the charge of being a danger to the city of Paris and the continent of Europa at large. I would advise you to come quietly. There is no need to put up a struggle or endanger innocent lives."

Roche stood at the door for a few seconds longer, but his shock soon turned to rage. With a snarl, he flung the lantern to the ground, where it exploded in a blast of light and heat. The men in front of Absolon stumbled about, knocking him to the side, and when he was able to look up and see clearly, Commander Eustis was dead and Roche had vanished.

The first man to fully recover was, naturally, Lieutenant Denis Noel. He had been groomed for the command of the unit before Eustis was transferred, and now that Eustis was dead, he no doubt thought it was his chance to act. "Move in!" he called, gesturing with his pistol before leading the charge. There was still some fire smoldering on the doorstep, but the men were able to step over it and crowd into the house.

Despite the small size of the house, Absolon was able to break away from the rest of the unit and head up the stairs to search the second story. He doubted Roche would have gone up there, but it would give him a chance to avoid being in this hunt. If Noel managed to take control and wasn't replaced by someone more rational, he might have to leave the unit altogether and find a new life somewhere else. For almost a minute, Absolon was the first person on the upper story, so he was the first person to see a short, bearded man with thick eyebrows and an old green coat.

"You're with the National Guard," he spat, and Absolon could only nod.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"Olivier Roche."

"Olivier…" Absolon glanced to the stairs. "The man at the door…"

"My son. Yves."

A floor below, someone shouted, a gun fired, and a young man screamed in agony. The scream stretched on and on until another shot sounded, and then there was silence. Absolon's mouth was dry, but somehow he managed to speak.

"Was he a Spark?"

Roche shook his head, and in the dim light, Absolon could see that the old man was crying. Something rested near his feet, but it was difficult to tell what it was. All he could see was that it wasn't finished. Parts and tools were scattered about half the room, and Absolon knew it would be crass so soon after hearing the man's son die, but he wanted to know what it was. Roche must have designed the lantern, and whatever this was would have some other purpose, but right now it looked like something that would propel tiny bits of paper.

"I'm so sorry." The words were hollow in Absolon's mouth, and Roche could tell, because he looked up with a scornful glare.

"Sorry," he repeated. "If you had found him, what would you have done? Would you have pulled the trigger?"

"No." It wasn't a lie, but of course Roche wouldn't believe him, and he lifted the paper-propeller as though it were a gun.

"You killed an innocent boy," he said. "I ought to tear Paris to pieces." Absolon wanted to run, but his fear was too great for him to move. Roche had entered the madness place; he could see it in the man's eyes and hear it in his voice. He might well try to tear Paris apart for this, and even though the National Guard would stop him from succeeding, at least one street would need to be rebuilt, and dozens of bodies would lie in a morgue until they could be buried.

There wasn't time for him to run or even to call a warning. Roche fired something from the gun, and shards of metal ripped through Absolon's body. He stumbled back more from shock than the impact, and even though it hurt, he was still surprised at the blood that soaked through his torn uniform. Just before he fell, he heard someone calling his name, and he wondered whether Eulalie had told Henri about her pregnancy yet or if she had kept it a secret for her baby brother.

He wondered what she would name her son.

* * *

There was no need for fear, Jean Valjean told himself. He needn't worry about being hunted down and taken from Cosette, and the idea that Javert would find him now was nearly laughable. He had evaded the law successfully and was recognized in his little part of Paris as M. Fauchelevaunt, an elderly and somewhat eccentric man who lived with his daughter and his servant. It had been years since he had been wanted, and the Champmathieu affair was long over.

So why did he sometimes wake in the middle of the night filled with terror that someone would find him?

He had heard of the downfall of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and every time he thought of the tragic fate of that city, he felt a pang of guilt. At the time, he had thought he made the right choice in going to save Champmathieu, but he had abandoned the lives of everyone in the town for one man. If he hadn't gone to Arras but had stayed in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he could have brought Cosette up in that little city. Javert wouldn't have accosted him at Fantine's bedside, and the unfortunate woman need not have died. Cosette would have a mother, and the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer would have a mayor.

A soft voice distracted him from his melancholy, and he looked out the window to see Cosette wandering about the garden and clearing away the dead plants. She had left them there over winter because he had insisted she not expose her hands to the cold, but now that the weather was warm enough, she went out nearly every day to dig them out. It was still chilly, but not enough that he could dissuade her, and so in the evenings she would come in with her hands and skirt covered with dirt and mud. She sang as she worked, and today it was a hymn she must have learned in the convent. He couldn't help smiling to see her so happy and industrious, and he wondered whether he ought to buy some seeds for her to plant this year. He wouldn't tell her what kind they were; he loved the look on her face when she was surprised.

Cosette saw him watching and smiled, waving a dirty hand at him. He waved in return, and she went back to her work. Her voice was not trained at all, but it was clear, and there was beauty in its simplicity. Years ago, it had been the toneless voice that nearly all children had, but now that she nearly a woman, it had more range and more strength, although she only used the strength during the more powerful verses.

He couldn't help smiling to hear her, and there were times when he thought she must have entirely forgotten her life with the Thernardiers. No one who remembered such a childhood could be so truly happy, especially as it had lasted nearly half her life. The memories must have either faded or been blocked off, and at that moment he swore to himself that his duty – in addition to being her father and protecting her – would be to never let those memories return. Cosette would have a happy youth and a happy adulthood, and he would do everything he could to ensure it.

But supposing her happiness went against God?

Two images came to him, unbidden and simultaneous. The first was a thin little girl with wide blue eyes, holding a roughly-made doll that anyone could tell she had made herself. The second was one of the sisters at the convent, preaching about temptation and the need to resist. Even though the message could be applied to any sort of temptation, Jean Valjean knew that the sisters at this convent almost always meant the need to resist the Spark. He had suspected Cosette was a Spark from the first day he saw her – even before, when he heard Javert's accusation of Fantine – but had never allowed himself to think of it. Even a child who had the Spark would be in danger in Paris, and while they were staying at the convent, mentioning Cosette's abilities would mean the two of them having to leave. Once they were settled in their house on the Rue Plumet, he hadn't thought of it once, being too happy simply living with Cosette. This was the first time in years he had truly considered the possibility that Cosette was a Spark.

If being a Spark was against the will of God, then he couldn't allow her to do what might damn her, even though he hadn't noticed any Sparky tendencies. She did get very excited sometimes, but then all well-fed young women did, and she had never attempted to take over Paris. Her flights of fancy were perhaps only to be expected from a girl of fifteen, and the reason he indulged her whims was because he loved her. Cosette was a normal girl; she had to be. If she wasn't, their lives would both be in danger.

Toussaint entered the room and began dusting tabletops. Jean Valjean sat in silence for a while, watching Cosette, and then he asked, "Toussaint, have you seen anything strange about Cosette?"

"No, monsieur," she said. "Unless… she is so very quiet sometimes, like a little bird kept within a cage. But she is happy, monsieur," she added quickly.

"Thank you, Toussaint," Jean Valjean said, and the servant went on with her work.

He had not considered the bishop of Digne for some time, but now his thoughts turned to the old man, as they had when he had been considering whether to aid Champmathieu. The bishop had been known as Monseigneur Bienvenu – the Welcoming Bishop – and something about the man had seemed closer to God than any church Jean Valjean had set foot in. Bienvenu had even treated Sparks well, and he would no doubt have welcomed Cosette with a smile.

Cosette was a Spark, but she was his daughter, and a girl he had sworn to raise in the light of love. Surely there had to be some way for her to be good and clever. If there wasn't… he didn't know what he would do. He couldn't simply abandon her, but if she chose to be clever rather than good, there would be nothing he could do. She was an adult now, and he couldn't always rule over her decisions.

The back door opened, and Cosette nearly flew in, brown specks falling from her dress. Toussaint would sweep them up later, too quickly for Cosette to notice the mess she had caused. "Good afternoon, papa," she said, half-dancing to his side. Keeping her hands held carefully behind her back, she bent down and kissed his cheek. "I've nearly finished cleaning my garden. Would you like to see?"

"Of course, my dear," he said, smiling. "Wash up first, though." She started to head for the stairs, but stopped when he called her name. "Cosette?"

"Yes, papa?"

"Would you like some new flowers to plant this year?"

Her answer was a nod and a bright laugh. He had never been good at holding back secrets from her.


	5. When You Give a Spark Attention

Henrietta Westenberg laughed. It was a good laugh, one that stretched out just the right amount of time and echoed slightly in the laboratory. She had been practicing in her spare time – not that she had much spare time – and finding the right tone kept her in the madness place. Her fingers were covered in burns and cuts from small accidents, and she felt a bit dizzy from the wound on her thigh, but that didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered now except opening the doors and casting her creations out on all of Europa, starting with the Netherlands. Once she had her little country under control, she would strike out at the Fifty Families, building up her strength until she could defeat even the Heterodyne family.

But first, she would have to defeat the insolent lout standing in the door, blocking the path of her glorious pack of human-seeking magnet-flies.

"I have told you before, Ursula, and I will tell you again: No one shall stop my conquest of Europa. Stand aside, sister, or I shall set my flies on you."

Ursula sighed and crossed her arms. "You wouldn't. Mom would be really mad if you killed me, and I know you haven't perfected them yet." The flies buzzed against the glass walls of their containment. She had built their hive mind enough so that they could recognize human forms and spend their energy on attacking them rather than wasting time on animals.

"Insolent fool! They would not harm you! I have taught them the taste of my blood, and you are close enough to me that they would only weaken you a little." Power ran through her veins. Never before had she felt so alive.

"Right." Ursula sighed again and leaned against the doorway. "You know, I'm starting to think maybe Luuk was right. You are crazy?"

"Enough!" Henrietta roared, grabbing the cord to release the flies. Ursula started to run, but Henrietta was beyond caring. "You will not mention that name within my hearing ever again! I shall take that boy and hang him from the highest rooftop I can find, after gutting him and using his organs for my experiments. Yes… I have such glorious plans for him." She laughed, throwing her head back and relishing her madness. "I have glorious plans for you all!"

Ursula returned, their mother in tow. Femke was still wiping her hands on her apron when she entered the laboratory, and when she saw the masses of flies, she only sighed and said, "Henrietta, dear, do you know how long flies live?"

"That matters not!" Henrietta cried. "You see, these flies will breed, and within a year, all of Europa will be swarming with them. They will draw the iron from people's blood leaving everyone anemic and too weak to resist my rule." It was a brilliant plan, and she didn't understand why her mother sounded so uninterested. Perhaps if she were to see the full nature of the plan, she would see.

"Of course they will, dear." Femke looked about the room and nodded in approval. "You've done a good job on this place. I think you're the best Spark in the village, and that's not just because I'm your mother. You're a brilliant girl, Henrietta, but there's something you have to tell me."

"What?" She felt like she was floating. Someone wanted to know her plans, and she would tell every detail. "I'll tell you everything."

"You don't have to tell me everything," Femke said. "It's just one little thing. How long has it been since you slept?"

"I –" Henrietta tried to think about the last time she could remember being in her bed. She must have dozed off sometime in her lab, but that seemed so long ago. "I don't remember…" Femke nodded, and her head spun. She paused, and her hand slipped from the cord. "Mother…"

"You can't take over Europa without sleep, dear," Femke said as Ursula hurried to catch her sister's arm before she fell. "Honestly, I thought your father's example had taught you. And to think I used to wonder why Luuk thought you were strange."

Henrietta couldn't summon enough rage to respond, and she slumped against Ursula's shoulder. "Come on, Henrietta," Ursula said. "Let's get you to bed. You can try again some other day."

Just before drifting off, Henrietta heard her mother say, "Just leave the laboratory as it is, Ursula. The flies won't last very long, and we can get rid of them. A clever idea, though. I don't think I'll destroy her notes as thoroughly this time."

* * *

Aurélien's dreams were filled with blood and fire. He woke from them slowly, stirring and trying to remember that he was in Paris, that he had escaped. The tiny rooms he lived in were nothing compared to what he was used to – what he deserved – but they kept him sane. The cold in winter and the heat in summer kept him from razing the city to the ground and declaring it his, and they reminded him that there were men and women starving in the streets, either because they were poor or because they were Sparks and couldn't hide it as well as he could. They were who he was fighting for, not his own glory.

He sat up and peeled the sheets away from his sweat-soaked body. The dreams didn't come every night, but when they did, he couldn't fall back asleep. There would be no point in trying; he would lie on his bed and toss about, trying to find a single comfortable spot on the thin mattress, and even if he could close his eyes before dawn, his sleep would be light and plagued with dreams of wild laughter and a family that had been even worse than the king of France.

He would defeat them, too, one day.

The floor was cold against his bare feet, but he didn't try to find any socks. He liked the cold, just as he liked the hunger he felt each morning and how raw his throat felt after speaking in the winter. There were hundreds if not thousands who felt worse than he did, and it was his duty to save them. His friends tried to convince him that he couldn't save them by damning himself, but if hardship was unnecessary to being good, then why did those with so much do so little?

He shook his head. His thoughts were still scattered from being asleep, and he threw open the window, hoping some fresh air would clear his head. It roused him from the torpor he felt on just waking but otherwise did nothing. He could still remember the city he had left three years earlier, when he was just nineteen. Forgetting was impossible, but most of the time he could at least push it to the back of his mind. This morning, his thoughts were filled with memories of voices calling a name he had tried so hard to leave behind.

_"Aurel."_

His mother, Elisa, was a golden-haired princess who had attempted to kill her own parents until they offered her to his father. She had been determined to marry into the most powerful family in Europa and had succeeded. She had named him for her second true love, having not found a good name that meant "power". Her affections had shifted between her children, and by the time he decided he had enough of her games, she was ignoring him completely in favor of his younger brother.

_"Aurel?"_

His brother, Nicolaus, had adored him, no matter what their mother said or did. Of course, Nicolaus had been the youngest of the family, and Aurélien – he would not call himself by his old name – had been the one taking the best care of him while their father was off conquering and their mother was trying to choose which one would inherit the city. Bastian and Aleida were the favorites, and each struggled to defeat the other. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to them and whether Nicolaus had grown strong enough to survive.

_"Aurel."_

Even in a memory, the voice of Corbinian Heterodyne made him shudder. His father's voice had been commanding, even to other Sparks, and his anger had been something terrifying to behold. Aurélien had convinced himself that his family no longer cared about his absence, since the alternative was that they would send the Jägermonsters to find him, and all of Paris would burn.

_"Aurel…"_

"No!" He had been leaning out of the window, but now he pulled back as though he could escape that voice. It was the one that had haunted him the longest, whispering to him of glory and destruction. "No, I left you behind. Go bother Bastian. I'm sure he'd be eager to hear you."

Castle Heterodyne couldn't respond, for it was miles away, and the voice in his memories wouldn't be vanquished by a few words. _"Aurel, golden boy. You will rule Europa."_

They would tremble before him… "No!" He stumbled away and crashed into a wall, chest heaving. He was dizzy, and it took him nearly a minute to remember where he was. Blaise would tell him that he needed to sleep more and have more to eat, and perhaps he was right. Aurélien knew there were times when he was a few steps away from collapse, but he was afraid that if he didn't force himself into sanity he would slip into the madness place.

He was afraid. It was something he admitted to himself every few nights, and each time it felt like a new discovery. He let his weight pull him to the floor, and he rested his head against the wall, shaking but not crying. He refused to allow himself to cry; releasing emotion was a luxury, and so he would bottle everything up inside where it couldn't be touched by anyone, where it could give him strength.

"God," he whispered, not sure if he was truly praying or simply speaking a word that had been tied to anguish, "God, stop it. Stop it. Get up." His legs shook, but he forced himself to put his weight on them and stand. "I can't do this. I can't let myself fall apart each night. If I cannot lead, who will?" None of the rest had the strength to do what had to be done; everyone gathered to him, drawn by his personality. None of the rest were even Sparks.

With shaking hands, he lit a candle and sat at a table that had scraps of paper scattered over it. Most were covered with battle plans and notes about how the National Guard could be defeated, but a few were blank, and he grabbed the first clean sheet he found. It was a ridiculous, meaningless ritual, but as he prepared a pen, he knew that it was not one he was willing to give up.

_Blaise, Christian,_

_I feel I cannot breathe. I've woken again, and it seems nothing I can do will send me back to a time when I was sane – when I was safe – but did that time ever exist? I am a Heterodyne, and I was never safe for anyone to be around. We must have our revolution, must build our barricades, so that I can finish this. The longer we put this off, the closer I come to madness, and that must never happen. When we are on the barricades, I will die; lead Paris to the future in my name._

_Don't tell Frederic. He would only try to save me. No one can save me._

_You must be the ones to lead Paris. I trust you above all others. I believe in you._

_Aurélien_

He stared at the slip of paper as though the words might suddenly start speaking to him. He hadn't even considered Frederic until lately, but now he realized that yes, the young medical student would try to save him. Anyone else he would be terrified of, but for his friends, Frederic would risk anything.

Aurélien held the corner of the paper to the candle he had lit, and the flame started to lick up the sides. He never delivered any of these early morning letters, preferring to burn them and pretend they had never been written. The only proof lay in his memory, the missing scraps of paper, and the fine ash that could sometimes be found in his rooms.

The fire devoured the paper, turning it brown, then black, then to nothing. The words vanished, his pleas and his commands disappearing. He might say them, one day, but only when he knew he could go no further and the revolution would be best left in Blaise's hands. Until then, he would lead his friends.

The fire reached his fingers, and with a curse he dropped the paper onto the edge of the candle, where it burned away to nothing. The burn wasn't too bad; the pain would fade by the time he saw his friends again. Still, with how many times he had burnt his fingers burning letters, he would have thought the scars would protect him. He was a Heterodyne. He ought to be stronger than this.

The thought had come to him unbidden, and he hastily blew out his candle. He wasn't a Heterodyne, not any longer. Aurel Heterodyne was dead. He was Aurélien Enjolras.

* * *

Blaise Combeferre wasn't an insomniac, though he supposed some of his friends were. He wouldn't put it past Aurélien to not sleep, given the shadows under the man's eyes, and Rémi might be as well. There were times when he pitied the both of them for what kept them up so late, but he knew both would scorn any offer of help, so he said nothing and tried to keep Frederic from doing the same. Frederic Joly meant well, but he didn't always understand that sometimes it was best to keep silent.

The streets outside his window were not silent, even though it had to be well past midnight. Sometimes he would hear a sound and look up from his book, but for the most part he was lost to the words. The book was new – well, new to him; the cover was worn and the spine had a crack – and was a gift from Christophe, whose fascination with Poland had extended to the Sparks in the area. The book was a history of Sparks in Poland and western Russia, and although there were chapters with obvious bias, the content was intriguing. Blaise had started it that evening and hadn't been able to set it aside for a moment.

With a yawn, he thumbed through the pages to the end. This particular chapter was slow and very repetitive, and he was glad to see that there were only twelve pages left of it and another twenty-five after that. Thirty-seven pages, and he would be done with the book. Christophe would be surprised to get it back so soon, but then, he should have learned by now how Blaise could devour books. The two of them were the most voracious readers of Les Amis, and he wondered whether any of the others had set up bets on who had read the most books. Rémi might have, and he wouldn't put it past Félix to take him up on it. Even Fabien would join in the fun.

Blaise yawned again. He really ought to go to bed. There was probably a meeting tomorrow, and Aurélien would be angry if he showed up and couldn't pay attention. How the man survived on as little sleep as he got was a mystery to everyone.

Thirty-seven more pages, and he would go to bed. It wasn't all that much, and surely the last chapter would be more interesting than the penultimate. He could last for thirty-seven pages.

Six pages later, he was fast asleep, his head resting on the book as though it were a pillow.

* * *

Christian Courfeyrac was willing to bet that, out of his closest friends, there were only three who hadn't gotten any sleep. Rémi, of course, would be out drinking, and from the way Aurélien had been acting, he hadn't closed his eyes for at least two days. Then, of course, there was him, who had been kept awake by a sweet grisette named Hyacinthe. Her body was soft and warm, and her thick brown eyebrows over her pale eyes enchanted him. He wanted to look at them and not think about Rémi's being alone or Aurélien's pallor.

"Hyacinthe," he said, running a hand along the curve of her side. He let his hand catch on her hipbone and linger there, his fingers stretching toward her pubic hair. "Hyacinthe."

"You say my name so often," she said, smiling. It was an easy smile, one that stretched across her face like a cat stretching. "Does it enchant you like my eyes?" The smile became mocking, but he didn't regret the compliment he had given her at the start of the evening.

"I like the way it sounds," he said. "A friend of mine would be enchanted by it. A poet, Jean. He would write poems, placing you on the same league as a boy Apollo loved."

Hyacinthe laughed and pressed her legs against his. They weren't very long, but he could feel the fullness of her thighs and each of her little toes. "I doubt I'll meet him." When Christian tried to act surprised, she said, "You know how this goes. We'll love one another and be so terribly fond of each other, but after a while, we'll drift apart. Another girl will catch your eye – an Esther, maybe, with long red hair and a body curvy as mine – and you'll head off after her, just like I'll head after some Kevin – odd name, that – with dark curls."

"Kevin," Christian repeated. "What, are you planning to go to England?"

"Not necessarily, though I hear they have the most interesting fashions. There are some Englishmen in the principalities."

"There are also Jägermonsters."

"Scandinavia, then. Or I could try to find my fortune in America."

"You'd have to find America first."

Hyacinthe laughed, and Christian took the opportunity to kiss her. It was too close to dawn to think of getting a good amount of sleep, anyway.


	6. The Anger of Professors

A glass bottle shattered just above Sandrine's head, and she ducked just in time to avoid most of the shards. A few pieces landed in her hair, but she was too busy trying to dodge another bottle to mind. "Professor, please," she begged. "Come to your senses!"

"My senses?" Professor Tasse said, and he laughed shrilly. "My dear, I haven't lost my senses. You've taken them from me!" He lifted another bottle and flung it against the wall. Sandrine hadn't been able to see the label, but whatever was inside started eating at the wood. "I will never take on another student who doesn't have the Spark. Never!"

"How dare you!" Sandrine had been attempting to reach the door, but that assertion was too much. She grabbed a beaker and flung it at Professor Tasse's feet, where it erupted in smoke and droplets of acid. "I may not be as strong as you are, but I'm a Spark through and through. Who came up with the idea for the Vitalization Technique? If it weren't for me, you would never have found out to how move erythrocytes! You couldn't even have detected them if I hadn't improved your microscopes!"

"Liar!" Professor Tasse didn't bother throwing anything this time but launched himself at her. Sandrine slammed her hands into his chest, snarling.

"You may have the stronger Spark, but I have the stronger drive. You've always given up when you got the slightest bit close to glory. I have to push you forward. Do you know why I spent all those late nights in the laboratory? It wasn't because I was trying so hard to catch up to you. It was because I was going through and tinkering. Your work was faulty, and I improved it!"

Sandrine laughed, and it went through her like good wine. She had been waiting to confess to her deeds for four years, if confess was even the right word. Confessions were too contrite. She was proud of what she had done. With another laugh, she turned to see where Professor Tasse had ended up. She had meant to shove him into a table, but when she looked, the table was in shambles and the professor was gone.

"Professor? Where –"

A knife in her back cut off her words, and she stumbled a few steps before falling to the ground. As everything faded into darkness, she could hear Professor Tasse muttering about "They'll just think you're another Spark. No one will look twice. No one will think it was me."

* * *

His name had been Urbain. Urbain Roux. Jean Valjean hadn't thought about the man in years, but now the name came back to him as though he had never forgotten it. The memory was because of Cosette, of course. Roux was one of the first Sparks Jean Valjean had met.

In truth, Jean Valjean had only ever been close to three Sparks. Urbain Roux had been the first, back when he had only been 24601. Roux had been 14037, but none of the prisoners had called him either by name or number. He had only been "Spark", and no one spoke to him for longer than they had to. Often, they didn't speak to him at all, leaving him to sit in silence. Even he had paid Roux no mind back then, but he had been angry at the whole world. There was nothing about Roux that could have touched him.

"Urbain Roux," he said again, and like an incantation, the name brought up an image. Broad shoulders and ruddy skin, with hair that had once been brown and curly now gray and matted. There was a fierce determination in his eyes, but that faded over the years, and during the last year Jean Valjean had known him, his height had seemed to fade as well. When he flung himself off a wall, everyone was surprised at just how tall he really was.

He couldn't let that happen to Cosette.

The thought was sudden and almost violent, which shocked him. He hadn't had such a violent thought in years, not since before Digne, and it felt entirely wrong within his mind. What would he not let happen? Her being locked away would be bad enough, but to think of her losing all hope, falling into enough despair that she would take her own life… it was enough to make him shudder. He couldn't even begin to imagine her in despair, not now that she shone like the sun and smiled almost constantly. Now that spring was coming, she had become even brighter, and Toussaint had to remind her to come inside from her garden so she wouldn't ruin her complexion. Last year, there had been a faint scattering of freckles across Cosette's face. He bought her a hat, but more often than not it hung behind her, suspended by the ribbon about her neck.

He couldn't help but smile at the memory, and how just thinking of Cosette was enough make him forget his troubling thoughts. As though she had been summoned by his good cheer, the door from the garden swung open and Cosette danced in, seeming to shed sunlight from her skin and chestnut hair. "It's such a beautiful day, Papa," she said, kissing the top of his head. "I've finished planting those seeds you bought me, and the garden will be all green in just a month. We'll have flowers all summer, unless the heat is too much for them." Her face fell a little at the thought, but soon she was as cheery as ever. "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing much, my dear. I was only sitting here and thinking."

She nodded, looking sage for one so young. "I still don't see why you can't think outside, though. I know it isn't very warm outside, but I didn't need my coat at all once I got used to the air, and it's so lovely now that the sky's turned blue again."

Had she not been the picture of health, he would have criticized her for leaving her coat. Instead, he smiled and asked, "And what color was the sky all this winter?"

"You know what I mean, Papa," she said. "It wasn't a proper blue, not like it is today. Today it looks like it could actually be spring, and the air smells better, and everything just feels right when the sky's blue. "

She looked so indignant that he could hardly keep himself from laughing, and to his relief Cosette joined in. "If the weather is so pleasant, perhaps we ought to go for a stroll in town. Fetch a hat and a shawl for yourself. You may go without them in the garden, but not when we are in public."

She nodded and raced off to her room. There was something so irrepressibly eager about her, and he didn't think he could bear to have it quashed. Fantine might have been the same, had she been given the chance to live. A pang of guilt and grief went through him. He had seen two Sparks die during his life. Cosette would not be the third.

* * *

Cosette wasn't very fond of hats, nor did she care for shawls unless it was cold, which it wasn't. The first few minutes of being outside were a bit chilly, but once she got used to that, it was as pleasant as any spring day. Her father wanted her to wear a hat and shawl, however, and so wear them she would. Fortunately, she didn't have to choose from many, so she grabbed the first shawl and hat she found and put them on. After a moment of thought, she tied a blue ribbon in her hair.

Her father was waiting for her by the door, and she slipped her arm through his as they left. "Where are we going today, Papa?" she asked. The answer wouldn't matter very much, but she was curious. There were times when she imagined she had seen all of Paris, but she knew that couldn't be true. Paris was a large city, and there were areas where she was sure she would never set foot. Something about the way her father described them made them seem shadowy and unreal.

"I thought we would walk to the park," he said. "It's nearly warm enough to sit outside, and I thought you would like to see the new leaves."

"Will we go to the Luxembourg Gardens?" she asked. There were other parks that they had gone to, but that one was her favorite, although she couldn't say why.

"If that is what you wish." He smiled at her, and she beamed back from under her hat.

Cosette didn't feel a hint of the cold when they stepped outside, and for a moment she resented her shawl. There was something almost pleasant about the way her skin prickled against the chill as her body attempted to warm itself. She very nearly enjoyed having cold hands and warming them against her neck. It was foolish, but then almost all pleasures had some element of foolishness to them.

More people were in the streets than there had been in winter, and if one seemed particularly unfortunate, her father would stop and press some money into their hand. It never looked like very much, but she knew it was more than it seemed. The people would thank her father and spare a smile for her, which she would return. Still, as they walked away, she would feel as though there ought to be more they could do. She wanted to help but didn't know how, and it ate a little bit at her mind.

"You're very solemn today, Cosette," her father said as they walked away from a woman holding a small child. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," she said automatically. "Not at all." Most of the time this was the truth, because most of the time she felt no need to lie. Today, however, she felt that her desire was wrong somehow. It was the urge to help, yes, but somehow that urge felt as though it shouldn't belong. It did, very much, but something within her insisted that it shouldn't. There was only one explanation she could think of: the urge came from her Spark.

It made no sense. For as long as she could remember, she had been taught that the Spark was the root of evil. It drove ambition, avarice, and pride, and anyone with the Spark must either renounce their sinful urges or be damned. She had done her best, and no one could deny that – unless they saw the sketches she burned each winter. But how was she to renounce her Spark when it urged her to help others? She might as well try to give up believing in God or going out with her father to help the unfortunates.

There was nothing to be done. She couldn't think of giving up her Spark if it urged her to reach out and help others. She still shied away from the thought of throwing herself wholeheartedly into it, but surely she could use it more that she had been. Not all of her sketches needed to be burned, and perhaps someday, if she found a husband who would understand and be willing to provide her with tools and parts, she could truly be a Spark. There had been moments when she felt on the edge of something that might be understanding, something that felt glorious and rich, but she had never been brave enough to go as far as she could.

Her thoughts were wholly engaged in the idea of her Spark, and it wasn't until her father stopped speaking that she realized he had been trying to converse with her. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said. "I've been thinking a lot lately."

"About what, my dear child?"

"Many things." She couldn't admit to what she had truly been thinking about, and hopefully he would assume those things were what any young girl might think about. If only she knew what those might be.

"Perhaps this is why we cannot spend more time together," he said with a smile that she only half registered. "I do my best thinking while indoors, and you do yours outside."

She nodded vaguely and had a half-formed reply on her lips when a woman passing by them happened to remark, "Such a lovely child! If only she had better sense in dress, she could be truly beautiful," and Cosette's thoughts were once more lost. This time, however, the confusion was more worldly than before.

At first she was sure that the woman had been speaking about someone else. A quick glance around the street, however, showed no lovely child, much less one who had no sense in dress. Cosette hadn't thought herself a child for a long time; even at the convent she had seemed somehow older than the other boarders, as though she had seen so much more in her short time. If she tried to remember before that, all she found were hazy ideas of fear and hunger, ones that warned her away from ever going down that path again. There were some childlike elements to her. When she was excited, she could barely stop herself from laughing and chattering like a little girl, and she was young and small.

Lovely, though, was something very different. She wasn't the least bit lovely, and she knew that very well. At the convent, one of the nuns had remarked that she was such a homely child, and ever since then, the words had followed her, not as a curse but as a confirmation. She was homely, with her drab hair and large eyes and skinny body. Sometimes, lately, her hair in the sunlight had caught her eye and shone in a beautiful shade of brown, and she rather liked the way her hands looked when she had just washed them clean from working in her garden. Still, she could hardly be lovely. That was a word for other women.

As to no sense in dress… she had hardly considered that. She wore what clothes she had, and those were good enough for her, but now she wondered whether she ought to take a closer look at them. Falling prey to vanity was something the nuns had preached against, but surely it couldn't hurt to want to look beautiful. She could be both beautiful and good, and perhaps her beauty came from her goodness.

All the way to the Luxembourg Gardens, her thoughts were in a whirl, first with beauty, then with the Spark, and sometimes with both. She sat by her father's side, looking out at the trees with their fresh green leaves, but she saw none of them. People walked past their bench, but she stared through them as though they were ghosts. It was as though the world has suddenly become invisible, or perhaps another world was surfacing before her eyes, and she couldn't understand what to do with it.

She was just as silent as they walked back to Rue Plumet, and once they were inside the house, she excused herself to her room. Her father looked worried, but she didn't pause to alleviate his concerns. Instead, she went straight to her room, took off her hat and shawl, and looked for the first time at the old mirror hanging on her wall.

It had been there for as long as she could remember living in the house, but it had never concerned her until just now. She stood before it for nearly a minute, looking closely at every part of her face and stepping back so she could see her whole body. After all that time, she came to one conclusion: she was beautiful.

At least, she was almost beautiful. Her face was beautiful, and even the faint freckles from the previous summer gave it character rather than detracting from it. Her hair was combed very simply, and even done up in a ribbon, she knew it could look better. Her clothes were even worse, and she looked like a child dressed for school. If she were to have better dresses and more fashionable shawls, she might start to look like a woman.

On that day, Cosette decided that she wanted to be beautiful.


	7. Going Home

The house looked the same as it always had, and Marcelline could almost imagine that she had never left, even though it had been five years since she last stood on the doorstep. The door had perhaps a few more scratches on it than before, and the knocker was shiny and new, but the nameplate reading _House of Villeneuve_ was still there, and the curtains hanging from the windows were the same colors they had always been. Seeing those gave her a little hope that maybe she could enter after all, and she knocked on the door.

It was opened by a tall, slim man with a hooked nose and gray hair. It took him a moment to recognize her, but when he did, his pale face grew even paler and he leaned against the doorframe. "Mademoiselle Marcelline?" he gasped, and Marcelline smiled.

"It's good to see you again, Odilon," she said, trying not to show how weary she was. He had always been her favorite servant, and she sometimes believed she was his favorite of the Villeneuves.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Monsieur and Madame did not expect you to return."

"I didn't expect to return either," she admitted. "Are Mama and Papa here then?"

"They are. Monsieur and Madame are dining currently." Odilon's voice slipped a little into the stiff manner Ulrich and Reine preferred he use. "I could give them word that you have come."

"Do you think they'll be willing to see me?" she asked. This time it was her eagerness she wanted to hide. The last time she had spoken to her parents, things had not gone well, to say the least. Five years was perhaps long enough for their tempers to have died down, but she still held her breath, waiting for his answer.

"I do not know. They haven't spoken of you for years." He stood up straight and looked at her as though she were a proper lady, which sent chills down her spine. When she left, she had been only a child. "Mlle. Villeneuve, I will tell M. Villeneuve of your presence and ask permission on your behalf to enter the house."

Marcelline smiled and stood up straight as well, which was no easy task, as she hadn't eaten a bite that day. "Thank you, M. Sauvegot," she said, nodding slightly. "I await your reply."

Odilon returned to the house, leaving the door ajar. Marcelline let herself slump a little, and she supported herself with a hand on the wall. She hadn't eaten that day, and the night before had only a rough slice of bread and something too watery to be called soup. The fare wasn't much better than what she had eaten for the past five years, and she wondered what had managed to sustain her for so long. If anything, she should have burned out long ago.

Some minutes later, Odilon returned. Marcelline could guess at his news from the grave look on his face, but she still gazed at him eagerly. "Yes?"

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," he said, not meeting her gaze. "Your father was… most adamant that you not be allowed in."

"What did he say?" Her voice shook, but she somehow felt stronger than she had in years.

"Mademoiselle, please –"

"What did he say?" She caught hold of Odilon's sleeve and stared up at him with all the might she could muster. "Tell me."

"He said… he told me to 'get that damned Spark away from my house'."

Marcelline released his sleeve. "I see." She was trembling all over, and not from the cold that lingered in the air, although her own coat wasn't nearly warm enough. "Thank you, Odilon. I suppose this is good-bye."

"Mademoiselle –"

She turned and walked away, keeping her head erect as she stepped down the street. She couldn't let anyone see her fear.

Cosette had been in her garden all morning, and she was just beginning to grow hungry. It was the kind of hunger that made her secretly happy; her body felt as though it was filled with sunlight and clean air, and if she didn't eat, she wouldn't die but would merely drift away because there was nothing to hold her to earth. Part of her mind insisted that she knew a different sort of hunger, one that gnawed with sharp teeth, but she didn't remember it, and so rarely thought on it. The other sort of hunger was simply the one where she hadn't eaten enough lately, but her father always made sure to get her enough food, so thinking about that was rare as well.

Spring had certainly begun by now, and as she rose from where she had knelt by her flowerbed, she could feel the warmth of the sun spreading over her body. Every few days she went out to pluck weeds from her garden, since she had to do it before they started to look beautiful. If even one weed sprouted a lovely yellow or white flower, she wouldn't have the heart to uproot it, and by autumn her garden would be overrun. She still felt somewhat regretful at pulling out such young green plants, but it was what had to be done.

She was wearing one of her old frocks to do gardening, since she didn't much care about getting dirt on it. Ever since she had started wearing dresses that better suited her age and appearance, she had found that there were too many clothes in her wardrobe. Most of them were given to girls who had nothing but patched dresses to wear, but a few were so badly patched themselves that they weren't much good except as cleaning rags or gardening clothes. Her hat was one of her older ones, and she had been considering giving it away as well; it never did much good hanging by her shoulders.

She was about to go inside when she heard voices and laughter from the street outside her gate. The gate itself was far down a narrow little path that led away from the Rue Plumet, and even though it would be safe to go down it and not have anyone know where she had come from, her father warned her against being seen there. She knew she ought to go straight inside and not think about what she had just heard, but the laughter sounded so bright that she felt herself drawn down the path out of curiosity and loneliness. The former was a feeling she felt often, though she rarely indulged it. The latter was something that had been lurking around her heart, but she didn't know how to identify it. She had her father and Toussaint, and surely they ought to be enough. But if they were, then why did her pace increase as she hurried down the path, and why did she hope so desperately that the laugher had not passed?

When she reached the gate, she stumbled to a stop as her gaze met that of a young man in uniform. He had finely curled hair and a moustache, and every bit of him looked as though it had been set up to impress. His friends were also uniformed, but they didn't catch her eye as well as he did, and he was the only one to walk to the gate and stand before her. "Good morning, mademoiselle," he said, bowing a little.

"Good morning, monsieur." Only a moment later did she remember her manners and curtsy. "I do not believe I have seen you before."

"Nor I you. Surely I would remember such an enchanting sprite."

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she murmured her thanks for the compliment. Before either of them could speak any further, one of his friends noticed his absence and called, "Theodule! We'll be late!"

"I'll be there, Zacharie," he called. Before leaving, he turned back to Cosette, smiled, and said, "My beautiful mademoiselle, I hope I may see you again someday."

Cosette practically floated back to the house.

Day passed, and Theodule did not return. At first, Cosette waited by the gate, dressed as prettily as she could manage without alerting her father's suspicions – if he knew she was meeting a man, he might forbid her from going out to her garden – and thinking over the small conversation they had had. The first day, she was in a whirl of excitement, remembering Theodule's well-shaped waist and how fine he had looked in that uniform. The second day, she was still hopeful, but she realized that he didn't even know her name and she hadn't learned his surname. By the third day, she thought his smile had looked rather conceited. On the fourth day, she dressed in her gardening frock and pulled weeds, wondering whether she had somehow managed to fall in love with a man she would never see again.

Since the weather had continued to improve, she and her father continued to walk out to the Luxembourg Gardens. They sat on their bench and watched the people passing by. Sometimes her father brought a book, but her mind was always too busy springing from thought to thought. Her Spark was flaring within her, and she found herself trying to see inside of trees to figure out how they grew so tall. She wanted to know what made the clouds, and how it was possible that the sky was such a blue. It was a proper blue now, and she wondered at times whether it would look good in her eyes. They were darker than the sky, but still beautiful, and surely a little vanity was forgivable.

About a week after Theodule didn't return, she had nearly forgotten him. Her attraction had faded like mist in the sunlight, and while she still sometimes thought of him, she didn't go to the gate and wait for him. Everything was as it had been, and she would have been perfectly happy to go on living as she was when a young man caught her eye walking down the path. She had looked at young men before, noting their beauty and the way they smiled at her, but none of them struck her as more than a passing fancy. This one, though, was different.

He didn't look all that different at first, aside from his clothes. Cosette had only noticed well-dressed young men before – especially those in uniform – but this one had a shabby coat and a worn-out hat with a mourning band around it. Aside from those details, he could have been nearly any other young Parisian man. His hair was black and curly, and while it evidently hadn't been cut in some time, that only made it more charming. He couldn't have been more than ten years older than she was, and she would have easily put his age at barely over twenty. Normally, she would have glanced at him and noticed his appearance before returning to the trees and the sky, but this time, her gaze held as though she had been struck by lightning.

The man was a Spark.

It was only later, when she had a chance to look more closely at his body and hands, that she would be assured of her belief. His fingernails had traces of oil under them, and his hands were covered with tiny cuts and burns from misplaced tools or careless slips. At first glance, however, she only saw the bright intelligence in his face and the way his eyes danced about, as hers did. They didn't dance for long, however. Not long after she started looking at him, his gaze met hers, and Cosette wondered how it was that she had forgotten to breathe, or perhaps she had been unable to until this moment.

She was in love.

Marius had noticed the girl before. Mlle. Lanoire, he called her in his mind, for the black clothes she wore. She would sit at a certain bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, where he sometimes liked to walk, next to a man who must have been her father or grandfather. M. Leblanc, Marius thought of him, for his white hair. Mlle. Lanoire looked rather like an awkward girl who hadn't quite come into womanhood, and he noticed her only as a part of the park, just as much as the bench and the trees. Of course, she was a more transient part of the park, since the bench and the trees could be always counted on to be there. When other people sat on her bench, he would feel a slight shock of surprise, but it was only because he expected the young lady to be there.

She was there today, and normally his gaze would have simply passed over her, but now she was beautiful enough to catch his attention. He didn't know the first thing about fashion, but he could tell that she was dressed well, and in a simple style that suited her. Her chestnut-colored hair gleamed in the sunlight, and he looked at her face long enough to catch sight of her blue eyes.

He wondered, vaguely, if she ought to be considered a woman now. There was something more adult about her, certainly, but that was only a delayed reaction, one he would notice later, as he walked on down the path. In that instant, he saw only the intelligence in her face and the brightness that seemed to lie behind her eyes but now burst out to blaze within his mind.

Mlle. Lanoire was a Spark.

Marius hurried away, trying not to look at her. His face felt flushed, and his breathing was labored, as though someone had just seen his deepest secret. He wondered if there was a way Sparks could recognize one another, could reach out and find each other simply by looking in one another's eyes. He had never met another, not that he could remember. His grandfather had hated them enough to forbid Marius from meeting any, and his father, who had been a Spark and so shunned from ever meeting him, was now dead. The first Spark he had found was Mlle. Lanoire, that beautiful woman of the Luxembourg Gardens.

It was like discovering Napoleon again.

The time no longer mattered. The day no longer mattered. Marius didn't know if he had been walking to or from class, or if he even had class that day. He could have been out on a simple walk through the park. He didn't remember. His mind was in a wild frenzy that he recognized from the times when he had started on those tiny clanks that littered his room. This time was different, though. This one was stronger, and it filled his veins with a strange buzzing that propelled him to his lodgings and into his room. He flung his coat and hat aside before grabbing the first clank he found and setting to work.

That whole day, he felt neither hunger nor exhaustion, and he only noticed the passing of time when it grew too dark to work. Even then, one of his clanks lit up from within and stood on his table, letting him continue his feverish work. It wasn't until late that night that he stopped, looked around his room, and realized he had finished constructing dozens of little machines.

Cosette didn't remember walking back to the Rue Plumet, though they must have, for she sat in her room, trembling all over and breathing hard. Her hat and shawl lay on the floor where she had thrown them, and scattered over her desk were sketches of mechanical flowers that would bloom at a touch. She at first felt disgusted with herself for giving in to her Spark, but then, looking over the papers, realized that the designs were elegant. Beautiful, even. Her hand trembled, but she smiled and wondered where she might be able to buy supplies.


End file.
